Yesterday's Shadow
by Takato Lover16
Summary: She felt helpless – she had to become stronger; like a machine that you turn on, she had to turn on some genre of bravely, from somewhere.
1. Sand and Her

_This is my first 'Tomb Raider' 'fic, so don't know how it'll turn out, but hope it does well. _

_This first chapter will be in the third-person, but the rest will be in the first-person of Lara. _

_Haven't really got anything else to say, but I hope you enjoy, and here's the first chapter: _

Yesterday's Shadow (Chapter 1) – Sand and Her

Water spat out, breath heavy – only a young girl, but here, in the place where she was alone; Alone besides her mentor.

"Just hold your breath – it's easy"

"I can't"

A sigh. "You wanted to come with me, Lara – I know you're stronger than this – it's only a little further"

The ceiling, claustrophobic, hung too lowly, and the sides seemed to engulf the middle; blunt rock arched across the open space, leaving the only passable way submerged under orange-stained stream. Dirty, shaking eyes shot a look of desperation to their mentor.

She felt helpless – she had to become stronger; like a machine that you turn on, she had to turn on some genre of bravely, from somewhere.

With no words, Lara of fourteen years nodded assertively to the obstacle, and dragged herself underwater; whips of air bubbled flooded her wake, leaving no still motion, lungs felt like exploding, but she remained, unwavering – sunlight her guiding beacon.

Water spat out again, choking, desperate breaths, but she was free.

Lara grinned a true grin, mostly proud of her courage.

"That wasn't so bloody hard, after all" She laughed, though her exasperation contradicted the statement.

The irony made her laugh, still.

Clearer water danced, accompanying the sand shoals and long, hung-over branches of fresh greens and lined whites. Lighter eyes focus and relax upon seeing their teacher arriving safely from the other side.

"How was that? Did I do well?" Lara begged an answer with her excitement.

A gold pendant, augmented with red jewels and fine crystals became so from the teacher's pocket – their keeper's eyes attention entirely upon it.

"Well, did I?" Eyes waited eagerly.

And with that, her mentor smiled.

And with that, a shot resounded from around, birds flew, water ducked, tress bent, but the shot hit exactly where it had intended – the cold bullet split and ran with warm blood.


	2. Inside the Ice

Yesterday's Shadow (Chapter 2) – Inside the Ice

Iceland, 2005:

The smell was fresh – unlike the lack of feeling in my hands. Wind pushed violently, chucking ice stones away from the Cliffside, dirty brown stayed put within the false jewels.

It ceased its bombardment, and again, the area lay quiet – hauntingly so.

Conquering the climb with one final encouragement from my burning, even in this cold, shoulders, I swung to gain enough momentum then leapt. The sound was expected – it mutated from a dull, pain-in-the-arse noise, to that which brought a smile to my ears – that icily warm music of snowflakes embracing the others underfoot.

The humid air from my lungs foreign to this land, I traced the fog which came to be with grinning eyes; the view really was spectacular. Isolated dots of ocean snake and bound around the surface, all the while surrounded loosely by waves of green.

Cracking of water heights smash from behind, accompanied by a relentless-to-be wind.

I had to find shelter.

Feet confident, I slid immediately down, the dots of blue growing in intensity, yet also in beauty. Dampened chunks of ice break from their prison, eager to race me to the bottom; eager to win, though the prize would be nothing.

I won, of course, boots ceasing movement atop grey rock and rusty snow – rusty, innocent – rusty, untouched.

The greenery lay much less than I had witnessed from above. Walking cautiously, caution being a learnt instinct over the years – natural to me as breathing.

A crater filed partially with ice became before me; unsteady but calm little islands all broken into each other's wake. Across from this, and available only to those who pass the moving miniature icebergs, there appeared a hollowed-out, almost underground orifice, begging my entrance deeper into the terrain.

Violent, unforgiving gusts force me across anyway, only space enough for one foot on most; I hop like an excited child, having rather a lot of fun, until, like a child, I slip and fall down; but instead of tears from my eyes, there's blood from my arm.

Luckily, I'd just made it across.

The now rusty, tainted water soon diluted the crimson second and was again clear.

Wind disappeared.

White bandage came apart easily between my teeth, the taste of hospital sanitation being cruel to be kind. I tied a knot around the cleanly cut flesh and broken trouser material, patting the area finished like a dog begging for a treat and climbed again into a standing stance, acquainting myself with the ice cave before me.

Pistols, almost freezing to death in their holster, beg me to equip them, for a hope of warmth, or that ringing of a gunshot from inside the dark. The space between fingers and triggers growingly fickle, I step slowly, less sound, and wait.

Stories from the mouths of natives encircle my thoughts; words of soldiers – mercenaries, rather, disturbing the tunnels beneath this ice. In search of something.

Bullet exploded in the distance.

There lay silence.

Arms remained their sternness, unmoving, unlike my feet, feet which began their descent deeper into the mountainside summit.

Echoes of water, even that from miles away, it seemed, reverberated back to this point – the ice's makeshift cave of sorts. The ceiling of jagged, uncultured rocks splintered beautifully down to even lower points and breaks, arching around, reflecting the millimetre-deep grey submerging the soles of my boots.

Entirely black in front now, not behind, but not a look behind.

Disturbing the silence, waves argued but didn't mind really, my feet's interruption – probably grateful for company – probably is lonely, being as lonely as secluded ice with only other ice as company; like being by yourself in a maze full of mirrors.

Touch being all I had now, the wide, free tunnel became a maze of thin, uninviting pathways.

A vast drop scrambled with points of frozen water would meet anyone who fell below – certain death.

The blackness ceased to last; rows of lights, of human origin, lined the circular chasm ahead; clear ice became black, shiny rock, and wetness beneath became dry – not passive.

I crouch low, a crunch screeching my existence, but voices ahead masked it well. From the middle, stench of blood nauseated me; back-to-rock, pistols close to chest, and a minute look over my hiding place.

The pale space was trimmed with narrow, sturdy bridges made of old material; moistness ran down, to where the bottom became flooded – waterfalls trickled from holes in the ceiling – half a dozen or so.

"I hope you'll be more co-operative than your husband" A man, dressed entirely in camouflaged white, face covered with balaclava, spoke softly within a sinister key.

"Fuck you" The voice was female – woman on her knees like a POW, sudden gun barrel to her face.

"I won't stop with you. That boy of yours; I'll rip his fucking eyes out and leave him here to rot"

My grip on weapons tightened with fury, and readied myself to strike.

Four new men, all dressed entirely not different from the others, seemed to report to their apparent leader.

"She won't talk" And shot.

The woman's life ceased.

None of the other armed characters were at all fazed.

Quiet.

"Find that little brat" They dispersed, clicks of sub-machine guns perched for combat – though not fair, just combat – combat against an innocent child – and cowardice such as this disgusted me.

Left alone, the leader pushed blooded corpse over the edge, a silent drop until the water chucked itself up and rocks were, too, blooded. I took my chance;

Sliding down a neighbourly line of ice, I outstretched pistols and landed behind him.

"Don't move"

"Let me guess; Lara Croft, is this?" The bastard raised his gloved hands sarcastically, turning cockily around.

Lack of restraint against my confused look asked the next question for me – he laughed and answered.

"Everyone's heard of your exploits – your interfering"

"Call your men off" I tried.

"This is none of your concern, Croft" Blue eyes inside his balaclava slit narrowed.

"Call your men off or I fire" No lie from my lips.

He simply scoffed, and a thin wire choked me from behind, one of his men pulled the line tight.

My guns dropped from grasp.

"You almost had me" A weapon,

Point

Shoot,

But a twist from me, the bullet crashed through my attacker's skull, I bounded, forward, kicked the pistol away, sticky blood skid down past ear, strings of rouge, A pull of knife from holster, a neat line, red escaped his neck.

The sharpness returned to belt.

I hate taking life away; to play God is full of complications – full of sorrow.

Retrieving my pistols, I stole the soldier's sub-machine gun and ran to where the others had vanished.

Short, loosely linked trails shot into tiny labyrinths, glassy blurs of reflections back to me; the clearness, however, mutated tarnished in the heavy footsteps of those ahead.

Grey weapon's torch light flickered fickly, way ahead growingly reliant upon orange flares; lining the sides like runway cats' eyes – even they appeared dimmer along the sprint.

Shadows crept away, sprayed across clean ice walls – I'm nearer, sub-machine gun dug tightly into my shoulder.

Four bangs pierced ears, chucked myself around corner, pre-petrified by the view I was about to behold; though the view I beheld lay wholly different.

Panting, heavy, pistol, gracelessly poised, hands shaking, lifeless bodies around – young boy, maybe thirteen, stared at me, anger through the barrel of his weapon.

"You killed my parents!" His tears drenched blonde eyelashes.

Dirty, brown eyes screamed for revenge, the trigger pulled, unfreezing me from my place –

Releasing the bullet from its prison.


	3. Augusts After December

**Yesterday's Shadow (Chapter 3) – Augusts After December**

I dodged, quickly, back around distorted pillar, bullets chipping ice, then only a click – empty weapon – then only sobbing.

Damp, black strap over shoulder, sub-machine gun lay attached to back; drips hung chillingly, soaking into gloves. I opened my hands, outstretched, to appear innocent, and began around the corner.

"Get back!" The boy ordered, mimicking the message of the smell of gunshots, and not wanting to antagonise him further, I obeyed – sliding back to where the air lay coldly clearer.

Arpeggios of waterfall droplets resounded around – all of them lonely sounds.

"I didn't kill your parents" The flares now barely lighting the area, blinked; but persevered.

Warm itch, fingers to face, white gloves stained red now – that bastard's blood – though the majority lay already dried. Rubbing violently, crimson flakes came away, and I felt cleaner, despite the blood within.

"I'm going to come around the corner now"

That blonde hair from before came into sight again; his eyes, however, set themselves into knees, spent pistol held inflexibly; I stepped between the lifeless bodies, nearing the boy.

"My name is Lara Croft. I'm not one of the bad guys"

Brown eyes, stained from the salt of his tears, stared into mine, and I saw something of myself inside of them.

"Kill me" Those young lips tainted themselves.

He stood aggressively, teeth slammed shut, pistol chucked away; blue coat hung loosely to his torso, thick, thermal trousers and boots stayed adamant.

"I'm not going to hurt you" I reached out my hand, but he recoiled.

The boy continued to stare, but I hoped the time would dilute his anger. Water became louder – storm must've picked up outside. I unhooked the light from my backpack strap and held it forward honestly.

"These flares won't last forever – take this"

Smaller hand snatched the object away, dexterously attaching it to chest pocket line; then proud, yet questioning eyes:

"Squeeze it – like this" And surprisingly, he let me activate his new item.

Comforting, somehow, white light shone into a cone formation, spraying differentially with its owner's adrenaline; corpses, illuminated, shone maroon and black; the boy's eyes slammed shut upon the display – the image locked into his mind forever – forever – if he's at all anything like me.

"I killed them. All of them"

Even the water ceased.

"I could've wounded them. But I didn't. I killed them. Stabbed the fucking life out of the first who came, and shot the others"

My heart waned. The ice cave around us waned.

"And I felt nothing for them"

"But I can't look at the blood"

That pain-filled brown again, and I feel it compulsory to be naïve.

"What's your favourite colour?" He seemed pissed off at my irrelevance, but answered:

"Green"

"And why's that?"

"It's a colour of life"

I leaned casually against the cave's wall, arms unfolded.

"Mine's red"

And a scowl attacked his features.

"The colour of death" He spat.

"That's a matter of perspective – mine's also a colour of life"

He asked for no explanation.

"Blood is red, yes. But blood is what gives us life, also. And when you killed these men, it wasn't you killing them, but the reason behind killing them, killing them"

I knelt between the corpses, dragging his eyes along with me.

"If you hadn't killed them, they wouldn't have hesitated in killing you" As I spoke, a thought haunted my mind, that it wasn't the boy whom I was trying to convince, but myself, myself, and all the years of killing, and all those bodies I've stolen the life out of and away from.

"How old are you?" I distracted my own mind, and his attention away to more ordinary words.

"Sixteen" The freckles decorating his cheeks and nose, and his lack of height had deceived my earlier guess.

"And what's your name?"

"August"

A dull rumbling and scent of lushness devoured us and the chills around us. Reflections of us broke apart, pillars of hard water collapsed.

"They must've found it" August spoke shakily.

The ground splintered like pencil lead, thick cracks joined into the growing chasm beneath, ice tips fell, and, like them, we fell.

Nothingness, light covered then opens then closed, grasps for something, anything; nothing became broad vines, entrenched from sides.

Pistol sprung, I shot the vine from its confines.

"Grab hold!"

Friction, hard roots, August slowed too. We halted abruptly, still within swinging motion.

"Are you hurt?" I asked, unbuckling a flare from my belt.

He shook his head, and watched with those eyes so similar to mine, the ignition of green light and dropping of the greenness down the drop still hanging below. The silence made it easy to hear for the impact of the hitting from the bottom.

But there wasn't one to be heard.

The unfiltered glow from August's chest illuminated the narrow shaft around; as if stepping into a different season, the air, though stale, gained temperance and the ice was granted the wish of metamorphosis, into mid-bloom pink and white flowers. Spouting from the gaps of stone into fresh leaf, moistness filtered down beside us.

"Inside the ice, there is life" August whispered.

And began, sliding down.

"My mother used to say that, but I never believed her"

Mimicking his action, we descended.

Questions full of questions clawed like a chip in my shoe, but I refrained, all down the endless way.

Foreign, yet natural beams encircled as we exited enclosure. The ceiling, dyed like the sky, draped low still and the light was blinding. Vast jungle engulfed the sight, decorated with unnatural gimmicks – jeeps, crates and armed humans; moving, working like ants.

Warm heat tickling my cheeks, songbirds' chorus, ripe fruit, ready for falling, grew an already fully-grown appetite and need for nourishment, water ran around into deep lakes, like reservoirs; here appeared a perfect environment for sustaining life, hidden, existing impossibly, beneath one of the harshest landscapes known to man.

Golden streams enchanted me nearer, and I knew, already, my next objective.


End file.
